Tag: Dawn

Groups Souls – Dalai Lama – Cloying Awareness – Exquisite Sculpture – Dream 01-11-2025

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Here are last night’s dreaming snippets. Sometimes when I need a “cheer me up” the dreaming provides.

The dream opens at a sea-side town-village. It is like Tenby or Tobermory with pastel coloured brightly painted houses.

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I am with my group of souls or beings. The place could also be Denmark or Scandinavia. It is impeccably tidy and ordered. The light is light and bright without blinding. We are young in age, children and dressed in colourful togas. We often incarnate together en masse. We have known each other for aeons. This is the group to which I belong. We are beings made out of light each of their own colour witnessed by toga and not skin. There is a sense of primordial innocence to us. We are going in and out of each other’s houses enjoying the fluffy clouds which surround us.

I awake for a loo break a little after 4 AM.

As I drift off I have a strong mental image of H.H. Dalai Lama who fills the entire perceptual field. I sense he is deep in contemplation and sit there in that state with him silently for a length of time about 15 earth minutes. It seems much longer. We are happy and serene in contemplation together. A part of that visual remains as I type now.

I fade out and into sleep.

Sat at a pavement café in central London is a man of roughly my own age whom I had acquaintance of. He has bought me a glass of Coke with ice lemon and a straw. He is sat at a table there. He gestures for me to sit down with him. I cannot. I say that I have nothing personally to resolve with him, nothing to solve. I cannot be near his cloying preserving awareness. It is heavy and seeks to enfold and keep things the same. His awareness is like a cloying quagmire, it is old, ancient, dark and borderline evil. He gestures for me to sit again. I walk past. I have nothing to solve.

I walk off into a part of London I do not recognize. It is early morning, a little after dawn and the restaurateurs and bar owners are clearing up and setting up. It is warm maybe summer. The doors are open. I walk into one pub and put the Coke down on the bar counter. The owner is polishing the bar and tables and is happy to take the Coke. I admire the stained glass windows and period doors. I walk through into the next door pub which he also owns and out of the door back into the street.

I now come upon an Italian style restaurant which has a large ornate orangery-greenhouse attached. The manageress is there in her black and whites with a low apron on. She is organising tables in the orangery. The windows of the building are leaded in, like cathedral windows. The clear uncoloured glass is warped by the flow of age. The lead is painted crimson red. The overall effect is magnificent with interesting patterns of light refracted on the floor. I say to her that the light is truly wonderful. She concurs. She has a clipped English upper class accent. She say that it a pity that “he” the owner keeps rejigging the tables  because she likes the feel of Sicilian palace which it currently has. There are plentiful succulent plants. She is chuffed that I like “her” orangery so very much. It is her labour of love which she does not need to do. She suggests that I should visit the garden out back.

I follow her advice and enter a light walled garden with water features and wall alcoves with plants. In the centre is an exquisite sculpture / water feature. She says that it is OK for me and me alone to climb it. The stairway to the feature is made out of carved open books. The books are carved out of what looks like pewter, there is relief of binding and pages. They are joined together by a single metal rod/rail. Each book is by way of a step. In some the page writing is etched in relief. They are a testament to learning and library. The languages of the books are diverse. The staircase mounts a large globe of the Earth which has all the continents and oceans cut to scale. The globe is several times my size. I climb the “ladder”. Out of the North Pole a drinking fountain flows. Its flow is lightly pulsing and the water trickles downs wetting every side of the world. The water is collected in a fish pond in which the globe sits. The ladder passes over the pond. In the pond are ornamental koi carp. The manageress encourages me up and to taste the water. I do and the water is cool and refreshing nectar like in quality. Some of it runs down onto my white linen shirt. The morning light illuminates the garden and orangery.

The dream ends.

Flying – Shot At – Antique Rifle Dream – 02-10-2025

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Here is this morning’s dream. It is the first flying dream that I have had in a very long time. Previously a long while ago I was able to direct the flying as one might in a lucid dreaming scenario. I quickly realised that this, although pleasant, was not dreaming proper.

The dream opens on a grassy hillside looking out over verdant countryside. The hill is a part of a range of hills rising out of a very flat farming countryside, a patchwork of fields. It is UK or Northern Europe. The sun is low in the sky, East. It is not long after dawn and there is a dew on the grass. I am enjoying the morning sun on my face. It is morning and I am very much alive because of it. I feel the breeze blowing towards the South along the range of hills.

I lean into the breeze and allow it to lift me. I am soaring on the breeze like wearing a wing suit though much lighter in feel and slower of velocity. I can soar like a raptor, a condor on the thermals at the edge of the range of hills. I am dressed in my normal combats and a Berghaus fleece. My hair has grown. I bank towards the East.

There is a brief interlude in which I look down on Sicily from an altitude of space. I can see the geographic contours of the island as per a map.

I am now back on the wind flying around a hundred metres or so above the hillside. I notice stones and bullets starting to whizz by me. Someone is taking pot shots. I land behind a small rocky outcrop. Down on the flat land behind a dry stone wall I can see two old Land Rovers in khaki. There are men with slingshots and modern black semi-automatic rifles shooting at me.

I find my antique rifle which has a wooden body, the wood is a burnished chestnut colour, it is bolt action and has a small magazine. It has a telescopic sight. It is a hunting or sniper rifle. I hold the trigger grip in my right hand and bring my left eye to the sight. I can clearly see the men behind the wall. I fire a shot and notice it is slightly off where I am aiming. I adjust the sight and remember that the bullets are low calibre, there is not much of a recoil. I use my right hand to operate the bolt action. I then get various members of the party with their heads  in the sight. I know that I could easily kill them. Instead I aim a shot at the top of the stone wall. It strikes between two of the men. They recoil and duck. I repeat the action between two more of the men. The men are now all down behind the wall. They run for the cars and drive off. As they do this I shoot one of the cargo rails on top of the rear Land Rover. I can hear the metal on metal from where I am. I place the rifle on the floor and launch back into flight.

This time I soar higher and can see the cars winding down the country roads. I am enjoying myself considerably in the morning sunshine. On a hillside in the middle distance I can see my wife sat meditating. In front of her drying in the sun are a t-shirt and her combat style sweat pants. I fly over to look at her. She is wearing a full shawl. She is not yet ready to fully take flight. By mid-afternoon she will be ready. I will come back for her then. I head off towards the sea. I know some ocean cliffs there where I can be with the seabirds for a while.

The dream ends.

Limelight and Gangsters – Night

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This morning the Guardian has a photo-essay on the Limelight Club in the 1980s. It was an “it” club for a while with lots of famous London scene people.

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I used to work at a night club just of Oxford Street in the mid-eighties. Sometimes as many as three or four nights a week as a barman. I used start at 8 PM to set up the bar and get hone for 5 AM get a few hours’ sleep and during the week be back in The Royal Institution for coffee at 10 to do science. The club closed at 3:30 AM.

How I managed to get a Ph.D. remains a bit of a mystery…

It was on these early morning walks back from the night bus stop home when I knew beyond doubt that my time of day is the pre-dawn and dawn. London viewed from Kingsbury / Wembley in the summer, as it wakes up, it quite quiet special. The mental space is near silent and it is just fantastic.

I was a regular after the club closed at various fast food stalls near Oxford Street tube. On first name terms. Travelling home in my barman’s black and whites I use to often have females sitting next to me on the night bus for safety. I was not as pissed out of my skull as some of the other passengers. I was awake because of my Soul fate. I often had a few dabs to keep going.

Once a month one of the clubs would host a staff club night. These were free and only for other nightclub staff with reduced bar prices. They would start at 4 AM and go onto around  7. The DJ at the Limelight had an in depth selection of rare jazz funk and mellow soul groove. He would play it for us the discerning who needed a break from the stuff they had listened to all night. When it was the Limelight’s turn to host it was my favourite.

Because I spoke “posh” whenever the nightclub owners (possibly gangsters) came visit our club the manager would hold court one end of the bar. Only I was allowed to serve them. There was a cupboard with top notch classy booze only for VIPs. I was allowed to talk with them too. The others were kept at a distance. After I left the manger told me that if I ever needed a job to get back to him.

Seems not so long ago…

Dreaming Colour – Shaman – nagal Woman – Light – Dream 13-09-2025

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Here is this morning’s sequence.

Around 6:15 AM back from the bathroom I lay in bed. I was unsure if I should get up or if I would go back to sleep. So I began a raja yoga thought form meditation building a form and a triangulation. I was having difficulty holding the form which is unusual. I started to notice breakthrough of dreaming colour of a passive kind. I decided to follow the cue and absorbed myself into the dreaming colour.

I am to explore. The visual field fills with a light blue and indigo blue light nascent and forming like clouds in time lapse. The colour assumes shapes similar to a Mandelbrot set though much more poorly defined. It is fractal. The visual field is breathing and transforming. The light is struggling against an inflowing darkness a kind of black ink diffusing into clear water effect. I allow the blue to swell excluding the ink. There is and ebb and flow of dark “ink” and vibrant light-indigo-blue. The dreaming is struggling against the incoming darkness. I know this to be caused by the darkness and evil currently expanding into the world. Unpleasant evil is on the rise. The dreaming of mankind is impinged by this darkness and it struggles to dream in, dream true. I observe and will the dreaming colour, the light-indigo-blue, to fill the visual field like a tide washing up a beach. It marginalises the darkness but does not exclude it completely. It holds the darkness temporarily at bay. The session lasts for between a quarter and a half earth hours, though it seems more eternal. I feel energised by the power of the dreaming.

I allow myself to leave the dreaming colour and build the raja yoga thought form and triangulation with ease.

The dream starts upstairs at Monty’s with Robin he is trying to find us a new house to live in. We are exploring the upstairs of a house. He says that it is bigger than the one at Monty’s, which it is. He has other places to show me. But first he wants us to meet someone.

The scene now change to the cafeteria of an ethnic shop come garden centre somewhere in the UK, query Wales or Borders. I am sat at a large round table with the wife to my right and Robin and a Mexican looking woman opposite. She is opposite me; Robin is opposite the wife. On the table is an earthenware bread basket and rectangular beaded place mats set with tiny turquoise stones. The feeling is very South America. On the walls are chianti-like wine bottle with a straw protective covering. Robin says that we should all join hands in a circle. I say that this is not a good idea, specifically for her, you. I look directly at her and she returns the gaze.

She has dark black hair with a few streaks of grey-white tied tightly back into a bun. She is of a similar though older age as me. She is slight and wearing a thick coloured line-patterned “poncho”. She has a single large “silver” earing in her left ear. Here eyes are obsidian black. She does not think it a bad idea to hold hands. She reaches out her right hand, which is small, tanned and leathery. As she does this the sleeve of her turquoise shirt rises up to reveal a silver ethnic bracelet. She offers me her hand. I can feel the palm-chakra in my right hand begin to burn and radiate heat. I say that I know she is a shaman to which she makes no reply but has a reciprocal knowing.

I bring my hand close to hers and we grip. She initially winces at the impact of heat from my hand. There is an instantaneous rush and a kind of melding. The room around us disappears. I know that she is a nagal woman. For what seems a long time we are sat there without chair or table for support suspended in space holding hands.

She then shows me by mental projection a truly brilliant white four pointed star of immense radiance.

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The basic outline is as above. But the visual image was truly dazzling filling the entire visual-dream-field.

She asks me what it is that I do.

I say that I work quietly persistently against darkness and that I have always done this.

She says that I am a light and that I have always been a light a part of the light a greater light.

She says that I am not alone we are all connected.

We sit there joined isolated in space-time for a considerable time.

On letting go of hands we are back at the table in the restaurant. The others do not seem to have noticed. We have some food and browse the ethnic shop. I pick some items up and go to the till to pay. The cash register is not modern. The woman puts the items in a hessian bag and tells me to take care of them because the last time I was here I broke a few things. I discuss with the nagal woman how I once had a male student who I knew was a proto-shaman and more. I knew that he was like me and that he was not yet ready to learn this. He needed to have a shaman’s breakdown first in order to be ready. Just like I did thirty years ago. The feeling is that he is now ready.

The woman at the till is a confederate of the nagal woman. Something drops on the floor off the till and I kneel down to pick it up. She has pushed it. As I do this the nagal woman places a fine wooden tube into my left ear and blows with some force some plant material and a tiny diamond-like gemstone. I see them moving down inside the opaque tube and feel them enter my beingness via the ear.

I am kneeling in a position like martial arts seiza with my back straight and my eyes front. I have no shirt on and am in white linen trousers. I am looking East directly into the dawn. The light flows past my head like a wind blowing my hair which starts off longish black. I initially have no body hair on my torso. I am kneeling in a wind, a gale, of light. The kneeling form changes shape and I can see the face take on different forms which I know are different lives. She tells me to remember and have more faith because I am a light. By mind I tell her that I am made to endure and to wait. I may seem not to be doing but I am, I am waiting. She smiles and removes the wooden tube. We are back in the ethnic shop at the garden centre.

The scene changes and I am at a cottage with a wooden five bar gate. I am on the drive. The wife is in the house and Robin has asked me to look after a young dog. He is going on holiday and the dog needs a good home. I take the lead of a black and white springer spaniel type dog who is very exuberant. I close the gate and let it off the lead. It jumps the gate and Robin thinks it will run away. I call it and it jumps back over the gate and straight up into my arms. The dog has decided that I am OK.

The dream ends.

The New Age  – Early and Prepared

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This morning’s Guardian has an interview with Jamie Lee Curtis. In that she is quoted thus:

“I’m always early,” says the actor, deadpan. “Or as my elder daughter refers to me, ‘aggressively early’.”

Jamie Lee Curtis

People who are poorly prepared and struggle to keep to a schedule can see others as being aggressively early. They may resent preparation hoping to wing it through the chaos and quagmire together, make shit up on the fly. They don’t like it if you are very well prepared. Curtis says she likes to get there early, get the job done and leave among the first. No need to dilly-dally for a chit-chat and mutual BS session afterwards.

The notion of THE New Age has been around for a while and there has been a lot of idealism about how that might be. In esoteric terms the Kurukshetra will be the fifth ray of concrete {reinforced with steel bars} mind. The outgoing sixth ray is idealism and devotion, where polarisation among and between ideologies is stark. The incoming ray is synthesis or ceremonial order. This is the ray par excellence of organisation whereby something perhaps a being , a society , a company is organised into life in an ordered way. It is not hippy-trippy peace and love pass the spliff man, nor is it slice off your cock and dress like a woman. The Ronseal word is new and not same old, same old.

If you look, we can see that the three world powers are all heading towards some version of state protected totalitarian capitalism. China and America are not as unlike as propaganda may have us believe. They are converging these days.

There are idealised versions of what a new teacher, a new spiritual leader might look like. They are often predicted beautiful and portrayed glowing. That aura stuff is old hat. Do you really need vegetarianism, the lotus position and flowing wavy hair. Must you do the single pointed cart-wheeling octopus yoga position on your mat in Phuket dressed in your fashionable pink yoga pants? Any ”saviour” might not be as expected.

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Before dawn there is always darkness and there is a saying that it is always darkest just before the dawn, this is not optically true. Metaphorically perhaps it is. There are people who are morning people who awake alert and ready, there are somnambulant hibernating bears who cannot move without a litre of IV expresso.  

Those of a morning disposition prepare the way, cut off the unnecessary burdens and pare to the bone, they pre-pare. There are those who are the prow of the ship who bear the brunt. A truly seventh ray individual would differ markedly, be all about entrepreneurship and organisation. Out of the cauldron of inspiration they would be forever trying to synthesise something new. By human nature and its conservatism, there would be abortion after abortion after abortion. Explorations would go nowhere. There would be dead end after dead end. Pearls would fall among swine. The new would be always and in all ways resisted by the old. Those forerunners would at least dent the concrete structures made hard and fast by reinforced concrete mind. On the Kurukshetra the new would face its enemy the status quo, again and again and again without even asking why.

The keepers of knowledge and education would be the most resistant to and against the ageless wisdom, lest it challenge their intellectual deity and threaten salary. The wagons would circle and the Winchester rifles be loaded.

My own feeling is that humanity is heading towards a dark patch, a deepening stain, a bloody smear. One in which the facts of climate change are negated for profit until the shit really hits the fan. A wake up call of truly massive proportions is incoming. What may rise from the ashes and flood waters is yet to be seen.

Already some of the factors are here. Artificial intelligence is not intelligence; AI driven weaponry may be lethal and preserve the lives of the aggressors using it. But death is death. Each day humanity stares into the pixel master in its hands and pockets, salivating Pavlovian for an incoming beep. Hype and propaganda power are once again more important than truth or fact. Goebbels would smile at the mutating hydra he unleashed.

Often those who see things early are derided and ostracised. 20:20 hindsight is not much use to them in the crematorium. It seems though that this is the way it is and perhaps always will be.

Some people will be early, perhaps too early and they will leave early too.

Boulanger – Dawn – Harbour – Naked – Trinity or Triquetra – investigation Dream 26-09-24

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On a restless night a few days after high does Prednisolone.

The dream starts in a village in France. The village is on a hill and I am with an Asian Indian man. We are looking to buy some bread. We try one boulanger and it is closed, we try another. It is also closed. We run down the street to a third and it too is closed. The man is upset that all the bakers are closed.  I note a corner shop which is open and go in. In the back room there is a small rack of bread. I select a roughly triangular loaf. I note some bottles. I select a clear see through, as opposed to green, bottle of Sprite. I go to the till to pay.

The woman won’t accept payment. In English she says that she has been given a budget to pay for bread because the bakers are closed. She says that she will put my food, my lunch on her card.

The scene changes and it is the next day around dawn. I am only wearing a white duvet which is secured around me with a wide royal blue plastic belt. The belt trails behind. I am at a hewn out Mediterranean port.  The stone is sandstone and there is warmth in the air. I see a truly magnificent pale yellow dawn on the soft blue sky. It is so bright I turn away. I turn back it is so yellow, radiant pastel. This repeats several times.

Across the harbour I can see some boys and teenagers chasing fish in the water. They are shouting to scare the fish. I get into the water naked to intercept the fish. The fish change direction and swim back towards the boys. Several flying fish launch themselves out of the warm water and fly off.

I head up into the village naked. I go into a village meeting clothed. There is a bingo like game going on in which audience members are drawn out of a hat. The last two drawn are winners. Twice a young man called Mark and I win. He is a student. Another draw is made and he and I win for a third time. I ask him what he does. He says that he is an actor and is currently playing a murder victim in a play.

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He ushers me to follow him. We go to a wood panelled room where he shows me various lengths of rope. He hands me a thick crimson red rope the thickness of my thumb. It is longer than me. It is inlaid with a single fine gold thread and tied into a trinity knot or Triquetra at its middle. The knot is comprised of exact circles. If one grabs the end of the rope and swings it the knot can be used as a whip. The feeling is that this is a Welsh as opposed to Irish version. He gives me the knot and says that I need to remount it in the church.

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The feeling is of Brittany. I am in a brightly lit room which has a church like feel. I am trying to mount the rope on a leaded glass window. People are watching and commenting. The place is a shit tip, a huge mess and I am finding it hard to work. There are bits of window frame and hinges everywhere. I am up a ladder fixing the bright red rope to the top of the window. The sides of the rope will be attached to the horizontal lower part with a vertical piece dissecting the window in two.  The rope and the knot are special, relic like and mine.

As I am doing this M walks in and sits down. She is very much younger and now with blonde hair. In walks J. She too sits down and starts commenting on what I am doing. I tell her that I do not need her advice. I ask them what they are doing here in Brittany. M says that someone has begun investigating into my genealogy and family tree. The sense is that the investigation is official.

Dream ends..

Mount Sinai – The Clockmaker – Islam Dream 17-11-23

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Here is this morning’s dream. The wife says that I was kicking about whilst having it.

The dream starts with me walking down from Mount Sinai past Saint Catherine’s monastery I am to meet someone there. I have just watched {again} the dawn on top of Mount Sinai. As I near the walls of the monastery I am taken suddenly to The clockmaker. I travel instantaneously to his workshop.

In front of me is small man with wispy grey hair who is wearing an Eastern European black cap. He has wire rimmed glasses with circular lens holders perched on his nose. He is wearing a light tan leather apron and a white collarless shirt. He shows me the clock. In front of him is an exquisite mechanical clock mechanism about one metre in diameter. There are fly wheels and rotor arms all in motion. It is truly something. He says to me in a Swiss-German accent that I should watch carefully.

The clock starts to move and transform. It self-organises via a different shape to a nearby part of the workshop. It stutters a bit then continues to mark time. It struggles to regain equilibrium.

The clockmaker says that the clock shows the current lack of harmony in the world. It is struggling to find the simple harmonic motion needed for it to count time. He says that world is dangerously out of balance. He says that he has never seen it this bad.

I am taken swiftly back to the foot of Mount Sinai. At the edge of the car park are two large prayer carpets. On each of them in a few rows about a dozen long are Muslim pilgrims. They are in full stretched out prayer position. One mat has men and the other has women with hijab. They are all dressed completely in white. I understand that they have done purification washing. The white is very marked. They are about to make a pilgrimage to the summit of Mount Sinai. I had shared the night there with another group.

I meet a tall dark haired English man in the car park. He is wearing khaki shorts and an army jacket. He is stood by a fancy black 4×4 vehicle. He greets me and gesticulates to the people in prayer. I say to him that in 2003 I spent the night of my birthday prior to dawn on top of Mount Sinai as I have just done. That time whilst there were a few Muslims the peak was full of Japanese tourists. I say that something profound happened to me back then which I understood to be an initiation. I came down a changed man. The peak this time had many followers of Islam and they were all atop in prayer. I say that the last time I was at Saint Catherine’s I discussed the coming of the Imam Mahdi with my Egyptian guide. I managed to get him to go against guidelines which said not to talk about Islam with the punters.

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Dawn 31st August 2003.

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He opens the boot of the car and shows me some tourist tatt he has bought. There is a small ornamental sword with red hieroglyph like writing on it he is keen to have my opinion. I look at the sword and say to him that it is a cheap fake. This confirms his opinion.

His wife and two sons arrive and he drives us all across the Sinai Peninsula to the Israel border. As we approach the border, we can see the sign in Hebrew and English saying Israel. There are several small calibre bullet marks in the sign. The border guard stops the car and ushers us into the border post to check our paperwork. He sees my passport and official Science Museum pass.

I go to a computer terminal in the post to check in. The children go to a drinks vending machine. The dark haired man come over to me. We are parting here. I am going back to London. He has a slim notebook computer. He asks me to take this back to the Science Museum, where I am curator, for examination. I explain to him that because I do not know what he has been up to on his computer that would be very, too, risky for me especially given the current world climate.

Dream ends.

*The clock maker aspect of this is reminiscent of Kālacakra tantra, the wheel of time. Perhaps the west “imagines” or “pictures” the same thing but with a different visual vocabulary.

Earth Dawn – Arabic – Hidden Doorway – Rasta Seer Dream 15-09-23

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At 06:45 I had a bathroom break and went to bed unsure if I would get back to sleep. I thought to myself lie here and see what dreams might come.

 I drift off and from space I see a planet isolated in space. It is blue and green and white. I know that this planet is the earth. Around it I can see a bright white disc of light, a corona. This layer, atmosphere of light, gradually thickens until it is around 10% of the planetary diameter. The layer implodes and then explodes into a four pointed star of white light. The earth cannot be seen only the light. The points of the star are sharp and about five planetary diameters long at maximum length. They are at the four cardinal directions, emanating from the North and South poles with an East-West perpendicular. After reaching maximum extension they disappear leaving the planet isolated in space without its white light corona.

I know in the dream that I must meditate on this and re-run the vision of the formation of the four pointed star. The dream coincides with sunrise here in France. I have the sensation that something dramatic has happened for the planet. I consciously rebuild the image several times over.

The image fades.

The next dream starts on a large ferry boat. I am sat in the library of the boat. The boat has been purchased for educational purchases but few of the people are using it thus. They are in the bar and the games room. The captain announces that he encourages people to explore the boat and to see what other facilities there are. Some people come to sit at the same table as me. They try to take a couple of my books. I say that I have already loaned them from the librarian. I show them the front of the books where there is a slip of paper with loans on. The loan slips have my name handwritten in blue-black ink and a date stamp which is current for me. The books are texts of physics and chemistry together with ancient occult treatises. These latter manuscripts are very valuable and rare. I have been studying them a long time. The people are surprised at the contrast. I explain that it is natural to me.

The dream shifts to a country estate. We are letting a landowner onto the property. She is wearing a waxed “home counties” style shooting jacket and has a shotgun split in the crook of her left arm. She warns that they have let the dogs off the leash. There are two yappy black dogs and a border collie. I give the collie my fist and he holds it in his mouth we are playing a pulling game of sorts. The woman remarks that I now have a friend and that she, the collie, is rarely like that with any human outside their immediate family.

We carry on around the property and to the place where it adjoins the sea. The woman and the daughter say that this cove is their favourite bit. I point South. I say that I prefer the view of the massif across the strait. There above the azure blue sea I can see a fortress in the bright Mediterranean sun. We are making our way along a cliff side path. I don’t like having people behind me on the path and I come to a tricky bit on the path. I say that I am going to have to sit down because I am getting vertigo. I am stuck. I say that they can take the higher path on the cliff face and I will meet them on the other side.

I sit down. I then edge along the path and around the corner of a rock. Hewn into the cliff face is kind of terrace. On that terrace is a small single slat wooden bench. There is a wooden door painted in a dark pastel blue. I can see the grains of the wood and the rushes on the seat put there for comfort. The door is of antiquity. There is a metal ring about the size of my fist at waist height to right hand side of the door. I shout out, “look there is a hidden door!”

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A voice answers in Arabic that this is the door of El Shab Abdul bin Shamir or something like that. I cannot recall the exact name but it sounds like this and ends in bin —mir. The woman and two young people, men, are coming in the opposite direction along the path. She is speaking Arabic saying that this is the place he {Abdul} came to meditate and it opens into his garden. In the dream I can understand Arabic because of my crusader-priest life.

They round the corner and sit with me on the terrace. There is a suitable rock of a metre or so on the terrace. As she sits her long hair in corn row dreadlocks falls around her shoulders and reaches to the ground. One of her companions plays with her hair and says that she is Rasta. I smile because I knew some Rastafarians. She is half caste and resembles a young Whoopi Goldberg. She has dazzling blue eyes and I know her to be a seeress of some considerable prowess.

She switches to English and we discuss that from time to time she sees the long dead owner of the garden. I say, “his spirit?” “Yes” she replies. “He is a most unusual being.” “I too come here for solace from time to time.”

Unlike for the others there is no need for she and I to open the physical door. We are suddenly on the other side in a small yet exquisite ornamental garden reminiscent of the Alhambra with water fountains and immaculate planting. We are strolling along and I have the profound sense of having met this woman before. The familiarity if strong.

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The scene changes and I am outside a European castle gate. The country is verdant. We are stood by a weir which controls the flow of water through the castle and to the castle fishponds. These ponds are used to provision the castle folk. Every spring they open the sluices for a while to allow the fish from the river into the ponds and to refresh the water. It is the time of the salmon run. People are dressed mediaeval style. There is much excitement because there is plenty to eat after a harsh and boring winter menu. The keeper of the sluice ceremonially starts to open them. The flow is slow at first. Small fish are swimming up the weir. To one side I notice a large silver male salmon leaping up the weir. It has transformed into its breeding shape.  I shout. Everyone looks. There is much joy because the annual salmon run has begun.

I wake up and feel slightly overwhelmed. It is 8:15 AM. What is only a short time in earth time has seemed like an eternity in dream time.

* I have “memories” of verdant Europe, France and a more scorched Mediteranean. The sense of time is around 800 years ago, plus or minus.